To Conserve Fighting Strength
by ahiddenbanshee
Summary: A fallen soldier in battle calls for a medic. This particular soldier has never been more hurt in his entire- well, he wasn't certain about his life - who he was. He wouldn't - couldn't call for a medic, but they were on stand-by anyway, always. Even if they were both branded by Hydra, he needed all the help he could get. Just to finally understand again. [post CA:WS and spoilers]
1. Chapter 1

Since he'd rescued the man - his mission, his failed mission - from the crushing debris of SHIELD's helicarriers burning hot into the river, he'd been thrown off kilter. The man - blond, large and strong, righteous and merciful; ever since the final fight, before he fell, the Soldier had thoughts... thoughts that weren't his own... Or perhaps they were, but they felt like someone else's. It was all too confusing. The more he thought about it the more his head ached with searing pain ( a pain he'd've likened to the chair treatment, if he could remember it). He would distract himself with menial tasks, focus on his next move, plan of action, since he had nowhere to go, no one to report to. HYDRA within SHIELD was revealed to the entire world, HYDRA agents were being detained and tried, and SHIELD was terminated; he was a dangerous assassin, probably the most deadly of all the world's assassins, no one would offer him salvation... Hell, he wasn't even sure if he wanted salvation.

If he was honest, more than anything he just wanted to make sense of everything. To understand. Because he knew the man - his mission - the one he'd pulled onto the river bank - but he didn't know how or when he knew him. Something told him to pull him from the depths of the river and save him. And as he waited to see the man's chest rise and fall with breath, water spilling from his lips, he wondered how he could have ever had such a friend, someone who would've let himself be killed because he didn't want to hurt him, adamantly insisting their friendship, someone like this man in blue. Fuzzy snap shots played in his brain, like a slide show of photos changing too fast from him to clearly see and maybe recognize...? No. It was... impossible. It couldn't - could it?

It was these types of hanging questions racing tirelessly through his mind, coupled with the images of his recent memory and the memories of his apparent distant past that distracted him, kept him from moving on, and managing on his own, surviving, since he had no one in the world... No one, it seemed, until he was distracted yet again and accosted.

The image of a scruffy man, eyes glazed over, staring mouth agape at a soda machine in the darkened alley between shitty motel buildings. To an outside observer he looked like he was seriously deliberating between Pepsi or Mountain Dew, but the one who had snuck up on him (not nearly an amazing feat as one might praise it as, since he was stupidly entranced, seemingly blind, deaf, and dumb) gave the impression of knowing exactly how his mind was currently occupied.

"You know," the voice began, first shaking him from his reverie through sound, no longer deaf, but dumb and blind seemed to still be in effect, "Any self preservation conscious fugitive would've been four states away by now, might've even fled the country," the voice wagered and he could practically hear the shrug that went with it, "But you stayed. Just what is it that's keeping you here, mate?"

Mind and body fully back online, his left arm reached out behind him, not coming into contact with anything immediately until his body followed the motion. The figure was hooded, but he vaguely registered the tone as one he's heard before. Regardless of familiarities - excluding the Man in Blue from the helicarrier - anyone _he_ presently recognized meant affiliation with HYDRA. The hooded figure had taken a stance far from him, and started at the first sign of movement from him, but didn't make any motion to flee, or struggle when his metal hand enclosed around their throat.

He pushed them both deeper into the shadows, nearer to the dumpsters, and pressed the HYDRA slime into the wall. He shoved at the hood with his flesh and blood hand, presenting the face that went with the voice. It took a few moments before his mind could produce a name as well. One of the doctors. The gentle one, the quiet one... well, much gentler than anyone else had treated him since his last defrosting from cryostasis wakened him to a new team of people... Handlers. He could differentiate this doctor not only because she was one of the few (broadly speaking) women in HYDRA's midst, but, he remembered, she seemed the most reluctant to be among them; though her reluctance aside she was usually the physician he was sent to after missions, the healing hands that would retend to the wounds - if he attained any - he haphazardly patched himself, that the Red Room imitation serum couldn't heal. He had associated words with most of the HYDRA agents he regularly came in contact with, a great number of them were not the kindest of words or could translate well into English, but a word - доверие - intoned in his mind upon revealing her face. Trust. He could trust her. He suspected that _something_ that had encouraged him to save the Man in Blue was at it again.

Beyond the detraction of battling memories, his confusion on where to go, what to do since the collapse of HYDRA/SHIELD, he faintly recalled his initial decision to find someone. He couldn't remember why, or who he'd wanted to find, since his mind would run away from him, but... доверие. Could it have been her? He couldn't yield a guess. But доверие. Trust was her association word... Either way, she had sounded so smug and sure of herself when she approached him seconds ago, and now he had to appear like he wasn't at all under duress, constantly teetering on the edge between two lives, on the brink of hysteria, of tears. _He_ had the control here, she needed reminding of that; he figured he could trust her enough to get answers out of her before he killed her, at the very least.

"I've been looking for you," he growled, though his mind kept repeating: доверие, доверие, trust, trust - as if in warning. The statement didn't feel untrue, even if he'd said it only to demonstrate he wasn't to be trifled with.

She had the mind to futilely grab at his wrist and fingers curling infinitesimally around her neck, but that didn't stop the sarcasm from dripping through her choked words, "Ah, really? Well, _I've_ been following _you_. For the past week," she rasped frantically, trying gasp in enough breath to get the rest of her speech out. "Didn't really seem like you were _looking for me_ once those helicarriers dropped in a fiery blaze into the river. You've barely taken a glance behind you since rescuing Captain Rogers from what would've been a tragic death and watery grave."

Trust, his thoughts were practically screaming, though he'd never even had a full conversation with this HYDRA doctor, couldn't even remember her first name; in a world where he couldn't trust anyone, why had his bedraggled mind told him to rescue the Man in Blue (Captain Rogers, apparently), why was it now telling him to trust her?

His eyes shifted away and he didn't hear the whirring in his shoulder, the metal shifting, his fingers tightening minutely and her breath wheezing in smaller increments. Though his mind rallied for her help, his body, particularly left his arm, was in obvious opposition.

"I've been distracted... A lot on my mind," he muttered, as if it were an admission to himself more than an excuse for his negligence toward guarding his own life. His eyes hardened as they raised from the bricks behind her shoulder and settled on hers again, and he said, in that strict affirming tone, "I can trust you."

"Oh, that's nice," she gasped, hardly louder than a whisper, her clawing at his hand lessening as she lost her strength and consciousness, "Seems like a mixed message, though, what with the way you're crushing my windpipe."

His inner voice was snapping the word now, in a scolding tone. He recoiled sharply, shifting a few steps backward. Her feet touched back to the ground, and he hadn't even known he had lifted her, hadn't even know the pressure on her throat had increased to keep her pinned. He damned his arm, damned the Russians, damned the Germans, damned himself for ever joining the army... or - Another memory, distant and hazy and grey, had he enlisted or was he drafted into the army? He shook his head, like the motion would shift the jumbled contents and the puzzle pieces would lock into place to recreate the broken picture within. Finally. Illumination. What he craved.

She was coughing, hunched over as she gulped in lungfuls of breath, in and out until she was no longer sputtering, but still rubbing against the place where his hand would undoubtedly leave bruising marks. "You've been remembering, or trying or not trying to, and you've got questions," she finally said, a hoarse tinge to her voice, with less sass in it than how it had begun only less than half a minute ago.

He nodded curtly, his mind assuring him with that same word again; trust; if ever there was someone to be honest with, it was his doctor.

She swallowed, wincing with the act, but stood upright again, feigning uninjured, "Well, I know a place we can start that'll shed some light."

The Soldier's eyes widened at the way she was so actively prepared to aid him, even immediately after he'd nearly choked her to death in the back alley of some lousy motel near the trash dumpsters. He could hear that voice finally waning from the mantra of 'trust' to muttering something he couldn't quite get, something snarky, something like 'told ya'.

"But for now there's only so much that knock-off Red Room super soldier serum can do," she murmured, her eyes assessing what damage she could gather in the scant light. She reached forward - her brave face having never really shifted until unconsciousness with death to follow seemed imminent - and pushed back the hood concealing his bruised and battered face, keeping his greasy hair contained. He flinched, though he should have been accustomed to her abrupt, no nonsense approach; her hand taking his scruffy jaw, turning it left then right, she released his face and emitted a sigh of something contemplative and disheartened before deciding aloud, "That arm could probably do with a tune up, or at the very least repair and activate the holographic function." She started down the alley, toward the parking lot and rooms, muttering under her breath, "Damned thing is like a shining beacon just waiting for the right light to glimmer our location to someone HYDRA."

"Where're you going?" the Soldier called after her, his former doctor, or his still current doctor, as it were.

"Your room!" she called back without even turning back to him, but he could see her raising a hand to her throat, rubbing at the distress from raising her voice, resorting to grumbling, "I already put my bloody bag in there." She turned left at the mouth of the alley, toward the second building of rooms, calling out with that bit of sarcasm back in her tone, "In your own time!"

The Soldier gazed toward the soda machine, his hand dipping into his trouser pocket to fish for the coins within, but after a short moment of thought, he decided not to waste the small amount of change and made to follow the doctor, figuring he of all people could survive the rusty tap water from the sink in his room.

.

The Soldier knew the protocol - take off his shirt, sit down, and keep quiet. But they weren't in the underground gulag where HYDRA hid so near to the heart of the United States government, plotting its next SHIELD misguidings, and hiding its best asset. That's what they called him: The Asset. A single item of ownership having exchange value. A resourceful item to be used whenever it suited them. But the wind-up toy soldier wasn't in his prison anymore, there weren't armed guards surrounding him while his doctor fixed him up, she said more than soft commands now, offering to expand his mind, show him what HYDRA worked so hard to make him forget.

He perched himself on the left corner of the bed, assuming it would simpler for her to get to his arm, but found himself being herded toward the right edge, and the doctor took the place where he previously was, criss crossing her legs beneath her and quietly clearing her throat as she pulled out a small plastic case from her hoodie pocket. He hadn't taken into consideration that the people with guns in the small physician's office weren't there solely to keep him in line; liberation from HYDRA seemed to make her more comfortable, but nonetheless still professional. Her fingers moved along the side, working the locking mechanism and opening the case - a to-go tool box, of sorts. A red, interchangeable bit screwdriver handle and a number precision bits were inside. She took out the handle and fished around for the correct bit. It was clear some bits weren't from the original kit - HYDRA or SHIELD modified - she fitted the magnetized end of the electrically charged welding bit into the handle and quietly cleared her throat again before warily leaning forward.

The Soldier could be temperamental at times, but that was only when pieces of his old memories mixed with recent memories, in and out of cryo, so much confusion caused him to lash out in sudden anger, but he was always subdued and expected to simple comply.

"Remember my name?" Her voice pulled him out of anger fueled recollections, and likely just in time before his arm would've struck out, probably why her brave face had finally fallen - she'd likely been witness to many a HYDRA agent turned victim of his metal arm.

He nodded, looking down to the little spark that knitted back the damaged metal of his arm, inch by little inch until they fit together correctly again, or become less warped and prone to elemental damage. "Dr. Allston."

She nodded along in agreement, "That's right. Though I suppose we can do away with the formal title," she pulled back and dug through the little box again for a different bit, "Could you show me your inner forearm, please," she murmured as she searched, huffing in annoyance until she produced the piece she was looking for with a pleased sound of, 'aha!'

He did as she asked, and he'd never actually watched any of the doctors work on his arm, in fact, she'd never worked on his arm before, she'd usually tended to his flesh and bones, he had no idea she knew of his cybernetic appendage's mechanics until she opened up a very well hidden panel and started poking at the inner metal workings, flashing lights and buttons within. It was fascinating, but all together horrifying, knowing this piece of metal, this machinery, was attached to his body, the significant and identifying part that ultimately made him the weapon he was, the thing could very well survive on its own if it chose to.

"There!" she quietly exclaimed, replacing the panel and sitting back to watch the holographic image take over. They both waited, Bucky with mild interest (as he'd never known of this function) and Dr. Allston with bated breath. A flesh colored image flickered a few moments, seemingly booting up to function at full steam, until it stopped, and the shiny silver arm dawning a red star remained. "Well," her shoulders hunched as she deflated with clear disappointment, "Shit, or I mean-! Shoot... Um... Doesn't matter, I can find components to fix it later. Now let me see about that cut on your face," she dropped the screwdriver into the little box and set it aside from her lap and reached forward - too quickly, she'd belatedly realize.

The Soldier recoiled sharply, heart hammering with fear, before an automatic cold resignation took over, withdrawing into himself so as to not register the pain to come. "Hey." He ignored the call, it sounded so distant now anyway. So far away he didn't feel the anxiety of anticipation, he just waited for the end, waited to resurface again. "Hey," a lock of his hair was tugged gently, and he was startled, both by the feeling and the childish act against him. Resurfaced too early, he looked to the doctor who bared her open, empty palms to him in a display of peace, "When have I ever intentionally hurt you before? Hm?" she asked, and slowly reached to the right side of his face to the small cut on his cheekbone and the fading bruise nearer his left temple, "Dr. Allston's the one you went to get healed up, remember?"

With her so close and intent on his minor wounds, he had a chance to study her face, for genuinely the first time, it seemed. Dr. Allston had skin tone that seemed to balance indecisively between Caucasian and something of a darker African origin - naturally muted tan without a hint of a freckle or mole in sight. A cobalt hue, or was it more of sea green to her eyes, full lipped mouth that looked chapped and dry, bottom lip regularly abused when she chewed on it in concentration, as she had when she was working on the cybernetic arm. Her hair was a voluminous wild mess of waves and curls, though beginning to frizz at the roots, the curls were large and soft, chemically lightened in some areas nearer toward the ends. Generally she was a nice looking person, no one would have suspected her former involvement with HYDRA.

"No signs of infection, you'll live," she mumbled and released his face. And that was the second time, he realized, anyone had touched his face without malicious or hurtful intent. She stood from the small bed and gathered her little tool box, taking out the bit and flicking it back into the unsorted pile, then the screwdriver handle after it, and closed and locked the box as she walked toward a small duffel near the bathroom door.

Five foot seven inches, he assumed her height before she dropped to a crouch beside her bag and rummaged around. "Shoulder," she said as she stood up back, a tube of ointment and a piece of terrycloth in one hand. "Your shoulder. How is it?"

The Soldier shrugged, half testing it out and half in response, "Sort of hurts."

"Mhm," she hummed, "Rotate it for me?" she asked as she approached his right side. And this felt familiar again; tentatively murmured questions, careful touches. She obviously could tell he was different from... whenever it was that he'd had to visit her last, without handlers, on his own, hurt and confused. He wasn't sure if he should feel offended or grateful as she took more care with him.

The Soldier moved his arm in every direction he could, wincing with the slightest amount of pain. Dr. Allston reached out, but then halted, "I'm, er, gonna put my hands on you, alright? It might hurt, depending on that state of your shoulder joint."

He gave a nod, eyes forward, focused on the wall as she prodded along his shoulder blade and collar bone. "Captain Rogers got you in a chokehold? Popped your shoulder from its socket?" she questioned. He nodded again, and heard her sigh. "Okay, it was a good attempt, but I don't think you got it back in right, not at the right angle," she rolled up the piece of terry cloth and brought it near his mouth, "Sorry. This'll likely hurt like hell, but I've got to be sure it's in correctly. You'll be better for it, I swear."

His glance didn't waver from the blank wall as he opened his mouth - yet another automatic reaction - and accepted the cloth, clenching his teeth into the fabric. His eyes fluttered closed, watering slightly as the renewed pain bloomed from his shoulder with a couple sickening cracks, but it was finished in a matter of seconds. It still pulsed with pain, but he vaguely heard her comment that there was less deformity and he'd be perfectly fine now. She moved around him like he was just a doll for her to repair, smeared a bit of that ointment on his cheekbone before taking the cloth from his teeth, then helping him to ease his arms through his shirt sleeves one at a time, pulling the shirt carefully over his head. "I'll get you a bag of ice before we leave, pain killers won't do anything for you, I don't have anything stronger than acetaminophen. Err," she mumbled, retrieving and slinging the duffel strap onto her shoulder, tapping her fingers against her mouth as she surveyed the room, "Right. So," she pointed to you, "You check out. And I'll," she crossed the room swiftly to rest her hand on the door knob, "I'll be in the car... Assuming you didn't come into obtaining your own vehicle..." The Soldier's eyes finally drifted away from the wall to give the doctor a flat stare, "Yeah, didn't think so. C'mon then, check out's anytime. The Smithsonian opens at 10, we've got a three hour drive to D.C. ahead of us."

She claimed to have the answers he sought, that's all he wanted, and if that meant having to deal with her for a while, he supposed he could suffer through it... Maybe.

.

.

* * *

**Note: I really shouldn't be doing this, I have way too much on my plate as it is, but I am doing this... I really should, but I am. **  
**With that said bear in mind that updates will be slow, because I'm an idiot who writes 5 to 10 multi-chapter stories at once. But I couldn't stand it! I create OCs to save the characters that need saving. Though even more tragedy and drama tends to happen along the way. **  
**The fact remains, Bucky needs some saving - preliminary saving before Steve can save him completely. Right? I hope so. **  
**I think I'm going to keep this as a teen rating for the entirety of the story - however long that should be. Mostly cursing, mentions of Bucky's past trauma and abuse (physical - torture, and mental - brainwashing), sexual humor... and... not sure what else, but I'll be sure to notate possible triggery stuff at the top of the chapters.**  
**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

The drive was quiet, and made even more unbearably quiet with the shot radio in their broken down vehicle (how the car was managing to transport them on a single tank of gas was a miracle alone), not that the Soldier needed the drone of music to add to his headache. His thoughts were running rampant as he watched the scenery of Eastern America rush by, the bag of ice on his shoulder had long since melted, but he left the cooling weight beneath his sweater anyway.

They'd reached their final hour, drawing nearer to Washington D.C. and the Soldier finally changed his glance from out the window to the interior of the shitty car to the person in the driver's seat. Dr. Allston. His thoughts slowed to a brief pause before running full steam with a new list of questions, this time less centered around the confusion that was his life and/or lives. Dr. Allston was a nice woman, from what he could recall. Enough that his subconscious convinced him to trust her and let her help him. For all he knew she could be driving him right into the waiting arms of some HYDRA higher ups, or to the FBI, and this promise of helping him was all just a ruse. But looking at her where she sat slightly slouched in her seat, her left elbow crammed against the windowsill, hand keeping her head aloft, tired eyes focused on the road while her right hand stayed lightly grasped at the top of the steering wheel; there was only a slight stiffness in her shoulders, and though it could be attributed to her adamant struggle to stay awake and not be lulled to sleep by the rumble of the highway, he knew part of it was her guard still up against him. At least she knew he was dangerous, what he was capable of, though an idle threat wouldn't go amiss. All that in mind though, combined with her general kindness she exuded when healing him, he couldn't image her dumping him off on some authority figures.

"Nearly there," she yawned, shifting her palm from under her jaw to shield her mouth, "And no, I'm not planning on giving you up to the cops," she added so damned casually, without taking her eyes away from the road, only flickering a glance to each mirror before switching from the fast lane into the center. "I'm on the run, too, you know? All those SHIELD and HYDRA files out there for everyone to peruse. Lt. Melaina Allston, general physician for HYDRA agents, I can only imagine what my grandparents would think... what my mother must think..." And the Soldier saw her cool demeanor falter for a few moments, a glassy sheen to her eyes, slight tremble in her chin before she shook it all away with a huffing sigh, "So I figured what better form of protection than a master HYDRA assassin?" There was a smirk on her mouth and she finally turned her glance to him briefly, the smirk expanding into a grin as she turned her eyes back to the road, another glance in her mirrors and she was pulling onto on off ramp, laughing, "Kidding! Wow, I didn't know you could look anymore stoic. But I am really not going to deliver you to anyone... not yet at least," she muttered the latter bit under her breath, and he absolutely heard it, and wondered why the hell his mind still insisted he trust her.

Five more quiet minutes passed on city streets, then she was pulling into a shopping center that had seen better days but they definitely weren't in this decade. The Soldier watched her hands as she turned the wheel round to straighten out the tires before throwing the car into park. Those hands that had only ever touched him to heal, never for deliver pain. The Soldier knew this, but he was still vigilant, prepared for her to pull a gun or a knife because like she had said: she was HYDRA. But all she wielded was a pair of keys.

"Alright," she turned to him, he was slightly impressed but mostly unsettled by the way she could keep eye contact with him, more often than not no one met his gaze, fearful that a connected glance would translate as a challenge, as if he were an animal. But he wasn't, was he? The way she looked at him didn't make him feel like an animal, or like a threat, or weapon to be scared of - maybe that's why it put him off. Her treating him like a human, like a person, helping him - he couldn't imagine what would motivate her to do so, what she would gain. Those damned eyes, a greener tint to them in the car's interior, day light reflecting in, he had to look away. "I'm gonna pop into the shop, you stay here, I promise I won't be more than ten minutes. Please," she clasped her hands in front of her, the keys jangling with the pleading motion, "For the love all of things good and holy, do not run off. Easy as it was to tail you once I picked up the scent, the initial scent picking up was a hell of a time." She raised a brow in question for his compliance and he gave a short nod. "Great," she hummed and turned in her seat, grabbing for the door handle, "Be right back."

The Soldier slouched low in his seat, discomforted with being in plain, an easy target. He pulled the bag of cool water from his right shoulder and tossed it onto the floor near his feet. Left in silence and solitude he had time to think - hopeful that his thoughts wouldn't derail into brain aching confusion surrounding the Man in Blue and their possible shared past.

Lieutenant Melaina Allston. She had said _Lieutenant_. Vaguely, he recalled the unneeded introductions of the science and medical staff in the underground HYDRA base, in conversations around him it was always, '_**Doctor**__ Allston_', '_Take him to Dr. Allston_', '_Allston'll know what to do_'. On the door of her meager office was 'Dr. M. Allston' and the HYDRA symbol above it. Now he knew what the 'M' stood for, but 'Lieutenant'? What did she that mean? Was she Navy? Army? Air Force? Marines? And who for? By the dialect of her accent (Midlands) he assumed she belonged to some branch of the British Armed Forces. And that seemed familiar somehow - a female British officer... But a nurse or receptionist work was all a dame could do in the Armed Forces-

The Soldier startled from a combination of the peculiar thought - the tone of voice so similar to the one that told him to trust the doctor - and the door wrenching open. He made to bolt from the vehicle until he heard Allston's calm voice murmur, "Wait, wait. It's just me." Like that should've brought him comfort... Much to his displeasure it actually did. He settled back in his seat, eyes peering through the windows, scanning the area.

"Yeah, you can relax. I just did a perimeter check. We're fine here," she said as she shuffled a couple of bags in her hands. "Okay," she breathed out and produced a bottle of orange juice and a bottle of water and handed both of them to him, "Drink those," she ordered lightly, and immediately began rummaging again when he took them. "And..." she hummed, pulling out an array of items before chucking the rest into the back seat and placing the chosen pile between them.

He glanced between the pile of clothes and toiletries then back to her, an apathetic coldness in his eyes.

"Look, not that dirty homeless isn't totally working for you, but we've got to keep a low profile," she explained, "Sketchy hobo is going to draw some attention, attention we don't need." She reached forward to pick up each item, "Use the makeup remover towelettes to clear your face of grime and blood, change into this shirt and hoodie, spray that deodorant, cap on your head, and we'll blend right in with the college crowd!" she ended with a flourish of her hands and an uplifting note as if she were a genius and her master plan was foolproof.

He still didn't move, unimpressed as ever.

She folder her hands on the wheel and pressed her forehead against them with a sigh, "I know it's difficult, and you think I'm crazy, but you've got to trust me. I'm only trying to help you."

She was only trying to help. She was trying to help _him_. He hadn't been shown any kindness in years, of course he was cautious, as anyone abused would be, but he was puzzled more than anything. He hadn't given her any reason to help him, _she'd_ approached _him_, she'd propositioned him, and now here they were, somehow he'd let her take him this far. And it wasn't as if he was completely helpless, if he didn't want to keep up with whatever was truly driving this ploy he'd disappear, and he'd survive... But would he ever understand? That's all he wanted, and that's what she could give him.

He put the juice and water on the dash and grabbed the shirt from the pile, taking care to not jostle his right arm too much and also keeping his metal arm away from any passersby sight when he took off his old sweatshirt and t-shirt and replaced it with the new one. When he pulled on the hoodie, he saw her head turned slightly against her folded hands, eyes peeked open, a small smirk in the corner of his mouth. He glared, that's all he could do, and she sat back, trying and failing to keep her smile smothered as she pulled the keys from her pocket and started the engine.

.

The Soldier stood beside the car, trying to not to look so alert and suspicious - as Allston had encouraged - while she was taming the full wild curls of her hair into a braid and folding the completed plait up into a beanie beret placed just so on her head. The Soldier rolled his eyes - dames always taking their time to get ready - and he tried not to panic when that strange thought, familiar somehow but not at all, sounded in his head.

"Ready?" Allston popped up next to him, and he leaned back in alarm at the guise she adorned.

"What the hell -" he began, but she waved him off with a 'Let's go,' and headed out of the parking garage and toward the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History. He had to burst into a jog to keep up with her swift long strides, keeping her in sight, not losing her in the crowd heavily cluttering Madison Drive, he could barely spare a moment or two to make sure they weren't being followed.

Stepping through the massive entry way and into the building his eyes immediately sought out the exits, he flinched when he felt her hand grope at his arm and halfheartedly pull him alongside her, "Relax," she muttered from the side of her mouth. And a questioning pinch settled between his brows until he saw what they were slowly making their way toward.

Security. Bag checks. Metal detectors.

Her fingers gripped tightly through his hoodie and into the flesh of his arm, "Don't worry, I've got this," she released him to briefly brush the tip of her nose, lightly nudging the piece of jewellery hanging from her septum, then beneath her lip where a dark stud was situated. Her façade made sense now, nose pierced, ears too, he could see the edge of a rub-on tattoo creeping up her neck beneath her collar - a punk decked out in enough metal to obviously set the sensors off. She took a moment to nonchalantly adjust her shirt with a roll of her shoulders, fingers tugging at the hem as the line moved relatively quickly. "You walk ahead of me. Do not panic or get defensive when they tell us to stop. You take a few steps back and I'll handle it. Got it?" she grabbed his wrist again and arranged him to stand in front of her, barely a nod tilting his head in hasty response. Trust was key here, but he was finding it especially difficult as he tried to mask the glare in his eyes as a twitch from the lighting or a particle of dust when he heard from behind him, "A '_yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am_', wouldn't go amiss..."

A family of five waltzed through without any problem, and then it was them. The Soldier felt Allston's hand press against the middle of his back as she shoved him through and quickly followed. The metal detectors blared, the red light atop the archway flashed. He turned, hands already curling into fists, bracing for the inevitable fight as the two security officers started to approach them, one with a hand up in a halting motion.

"Oh shoot! Sorry! It's me! Sorry, sorry, it's all these piercin's. Y'know how it is, get one, get another, and another, kinda like a tattoos, becomes an addiction, right?"

And just like that all the preparation for a bloody altercation was purged from the air when Allston put on the final part of her act with a quirky, bashful attitude and an American southern drawl to her voice. His eyes had widened with a bit of disbelief and mild awe, and he stowed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie when he saw her fingers twitched his way in warning beside her hip.

The more elderly of the two security guards stepped forward with a chuckle, waving at the other to keep checking bags and admitting others through. "Sure, sure, hunny. I'll just wand ya and then you and your boyfriend can be on your way."

"Great," Allston acquiesced and shot the Solider another reminding look to keep calm, she pressed on with conversation, playing casual perfectly while she spread her arms out, "We're here for a project, World War Two."

"Is that right?" the white haired guard switched on his metal detecting wand, "Then you'll want to pass by the Captain America exhibit."

"Oh yeah, Captain America played a pretty significant part, huh? Crazy how he's back, right? Cut out of the ice like a perfectly preserved relic from the past," she smiled between the aged guard - as he started from her left hand where there were a couple rings and a couple colorful hair ties on her wrist and proceeded up her arm - and the Soldier, but there was something beneath that smile, something that looked... hopeful... directed at him.

"Uh huh-" the guard's sound of agreement halted in his throat when his wand beeped and crackled hovering a foot away from her seemingly heavily pierced face; the Soldier was sure the nose and lip piercing weren't real, he hadn't seen any hole or scarring around her mouth that would indicate previous piercings, and an impromptu piercing would've resulted in immediate redness and swelling, but the metal decorating her ears in several places, those might be real.

She shrugged, "Started with the ears," and grinned a smile that was all straight white teeth and dimples - oh, she was good at this. The guard gave a brief laugh and moved along her other outstretched arm, then passed over her chest where the handheld machine gave another cry and Allston shrugged again. Down torso, her stomach evoked another wail from the detector and she let out a little bored sigh, glancing toward the ceiling. The guard was wary to proceed, but it was his job, and he outrightly startled when the detector let out another peal of shrill crackles hovering just a few inches below the waistband of her jeans. "I swear that's it," she assured him and even managed to produce a blush to color the apples of her cheeks.

The security guard audibly swallowed, holding the wand close to his chest as he nodded, "You're all set. Like I said, Captain America exhibit'll give you some good info for your project."

"Thanks," she smiled and took a hold of the Soldier's elbow, then muttered under her breath, "I'm counting on it."

Ignoring her last comment, he couldn't help feeling an odd encompassing curiosity as they strode determinedly through the museum by Allston's direction. She'd snatched a map but didn't even give it a glance as she took them to the WWII wing, and with her eyes forward, maneuvering them through the crowd and flickering occasionally from left to right and over her shoulder, his eyes were free to glance over her form, unashamedly lingering on the places that had set of the wand to whine and screech.

The question was already uncontrollably tumbling from his mouth before he arranged the wondering words in his head, "Do you really-?"

"Mission focus, Soldier," she warned strictly yet simultaneously gently, and he kept his lips closed and turned his eyes upward to take in the sight of neatly restored and maintained Air Force fighter planes hung up on wires. Just barely paying attention to Allston reading from the plaques that went with them as his temples stung sharply with pain, his mind throbbing with barely their images, like a sputtering car engine that won't turn over. Mission focus. He just wanted to understand, she'd brought him here, so this was where the illumination would begin. Right, mission focus. If only he could focus beyond the pain from trying to make out bleary images flashing behind his eyes.

For an hour they wandered around the displays, Allston quietly narrating and the Solider trying not to let his anxiety get the best of him, setting him on a killing spree. Her voice was a dull, soothing background noise that kept him level, kept him from slipping into those confusing... memories... he supposed he'd call them, kept him away from the pain, kept the urge to fight away. He hadn't noticed her hand was settled in the crook of his elbow the entire time until she shifted her hold and he glanced to the side to see her eyes wide and sparkling with childlike adoration. He followed her gaze and saw the Man in Blue on an enormous cloth poster. "Captain America," she breathed from beside him, "There he is..." He turned his gaze back to her, his quirked brow alone clearly questioning her dreamy tone. A blush that wasn't at all falsified lit up her face and her hand completely disappeared from his arm, "I, uhh," she stammered as they entered the exhibit, "I'm gonna get a guide. You go ahead." And she scurried away.

The Soldier felt a faint urge to tease her for some reason, but he didn't linger on the strange notion and pressed on. He weaved through groups of people as he followed the exhibits laid out trail, side stepping mostly around excitable children running from and to the next display to press their faces against protective glass. Something caused the corner of his mouth to tug up in amusement, but he quickly buried that feeling down, hunching his shoulders, hands still stowed deep in his hoodie pockets, and face cast in shadow beneath the bill of his cap.

He slowed to a stunned halt when his eyes caught sight of something heart stopping. Rarely he faced a mirror to inspect his appearance, it wasn't important to the mission, it wasn't important in general, but on occasion, in the reflection of a window, or shattered glass, the wide pleading eyes of his targets, he would see his face. And on a wall sized display he saw an image similar to his own. His eyes scanned over the brief biography, had to reread it four times before he retained any of the words, too distracted by the photo of the man that looked exactly like him. There was old film footage running on a loop, the Man in Blue and... him. Smiling, laughing, slinging an arm around the other's shoulders. James Buchanan Barnes. Better known as Bucky Barnes. Captain America - Captain Steve Rogers' - best friend. The Man in Blue - Steve - he'd called him Bucky. He was this person; this person whose short life was on display for all to revere and mourn over. But how? How was that possible?

"I said it was a start."

He didn't startle or even flinch when Allston's voice sounded from behind him. Just like the previous night at the motel, only this time she wasn't cautious in fear of him lashing out physically, she was considerate, giving him space to digest what he was seeing; she didn't want to overwhelm him even though there was a constant drone of a male voice on the PA narrating displays and kids giggling and shrieking as they ran about while their parents chastised them.

A full minute passed before she took a tentative step toward him, and after another minute another step until she was close enough her fingers carefully crept to settle in the crook of his elbow again, his left arm this time around; his metal arm didn't exactly register her touch, but from his peripheral vision, with the slight weight he knew he should feel something. The man in front of him - the man he was - Sergeant Barnes would've been able to feel her touch, but the Soldier couldn't.

"He called you Bucky, didn't he?" there was no question of who she was referring. He just nodded. "I know what you're thinking," she murmured so quietly that only he would hear, the front of a couple casually muttering between themselves, not giving away the actual seriousness of the conversation. "You're not him, you couldn't have been him. But you _were_ and you _**are**_. HYDRA-" she paused and peeked over her shoulder before lowering her voice again, "They have done terrible things... Terrible things to _you_... But don't you think for one moment that you have always been this - been _theirs_, and that this is all you know and all you can be. You've been _remembering_. You saved Captain Rogers' life when you could have just completed your mission," she took a calming breath, her tone and speed of speech having increased in her... anger? While gathering her breath and pulse she surveyed their surrounding again, just in case saying HYDRA was forbidden word that would cause all the heat of America's Armed Forces onto them, or worse, actual HYDRA agents. "Through torture you were made into this, you were never persuaded. This wasn't your choice. Beneath all of this you _are_ him. You're struggling to remember, but you _do_ remember, don't you?"

He gave a nod again, though he wasn't all that accepting of what she had so passionately uttered to convince him.

"You want answers? You want to understand? This is part of it," she reiterated almost sharply, as if she was one of the parents nearby scolding their child. With a firmer weight on his arm she guided him away from the Bucky Barnes biography wall and moved them along the other Howling Commandos short biographies. She had a fond expression on her face as she regarded each one, and the Soldier wondered if it was just innate respect or something else... familial? "Mind if I call you James? Or Bucky? Might help with remembering..." she muttered so conversationally and with her attention fully stuck on the mannequins all dressed in similar garb of the Howling Commandos he wasn't entirely sure she'd actually spoken to him.

All the same, he shrugged his right shoulder, "Sure," he answered shortly.

"Much obliged, James."

They stood off to the side of the mannequin display with the immaculately beautiful mural behind it, each face depicted perfectly, realistic imagined scenes amid battle. The Soldier's eyes were stuck on the image of himself, and Captain Rogers in the center. Best friends. Since they were kids. It was hard to believe when just the other day he was smashing the Captain's face to pieces under his cybernetic prosthetic fist. He couldn't recall a damn thing, but with all the bits of history presented, the soundless film, the restored photos, they looked pretty companionable. His attention was snapped away by a short chuckle emitting from Allston's throat. Following to where her eyes were focused he saw a group of young boys posing like the Commandos on the mural while parents clicked pictures with their phones and cameras. There was a faint bubble of amusement rising in his chest, but yet again he crushed it down before any evidence could reveal itself on his face then asked, "Why were you following me, anyway?"

"To help you," she answered without any hesitation, "I knew you would be lost once HYDRA nestled within SHIELD was found out and exposed to the world. Nowhere to go, no one to give you orders, and clearly grappling to get a sure grip on who you really are after your encounters with Captain Rogers. I was just treading carefully - I know your strength, I've seen the repercussions when your temper flares. But like I said, I just want to help."

He still couldn't fathom it. He ducked his head when one of the boys looked toward him, finding refuge beneath the bill before the kid could make the connection, he harshly bit out, "Why?"

She shrugged, and he could practically hear the grin in her voice as she continued to watch the boys emulate the Howling Commandos, "I've always helped you, haven't I? It's what medics do." Allston hooked her arm fully with his left arm and tugged, "Come along, there are cameras everywhere. We've gotta play the part of tourists/researching-college-students for a bit longer before we can split. And all the questions you can come up with I'll answer to the best of my knowledge."

They wandered through the museum for another hour before they headed toward the exit. Allston waved cheerily to the security guard she'd flustered and as soon as they were on the path toward the car park she took the ring from her nose and the magnetic stud from her mouth and sighed gratefully when she pulled off the beanie. In the parking garage they reached the poor excuse that was their mode of transportation and she spun on her heel and leaned back against the boot, an expectant look on her face. A part deep within him nearly wanted to wince, but he just kept his distance and stood at attention, waiting for instruction.

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**NOTE: I warned about slow updates, didn't I? I think I did. Anyway. I'm hoping that this will actually be a short story. So it won't drag on for too long. Follows and favorites are very much appreciated. Reviews are always inspiring. And just thanks all around.**


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